


Signs Point to Yes

by msdisdain



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 05:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13241358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdisdain/pseuds/msdisdain
Summary: When Sherlock receives a Magic 8-Ball in the Met's annual gift swap, (literally) no one can predict what will happen.





	Signs Point to Yes

As the officers of the Met looked on, Sherlock looked down at what he'd gotten from Sally in the party gift swap, a perplexed look on his face. “Thank you, Sally, for the…” his voice trailed off. Everyone looked at him, incredulous.

“You never saw a Magic 8-Ball before?” The implied “freak” at the end of her question was clear. She shook her head. “You must've grown up on the moon. Ask it a question; shake it up; read the answer in the window.”

Sherlock’s brows knit together. “Why on earth would I--”

An elbow struck him sharply in the side, cutting off his question. “It’ll be good for a laugh,” John murmured. “Also: don’t be a dick.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning the ball window-up. To John’s surprise, his lips quirked a little, and he thrust the ball out.

_Don't count on it._

“Trust me, I won't.”

It would take less than thirty minutes for John to regret their conversation--practically a new record. He was heading to the bar for a drink and asked Sherlock if he could get him anything.

Out came the 8-Ball.

_Concentrate and ask again._

“So you're going to use it?” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, he huffed out a sigh and asked, “Would you like another drink?”

_Reply hazy. Try again._

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock.” The eyebrow remained raised, so John asked the question a third time--considerably less cheerfully.

_Yes._

“Hang on, John, I need to ask it if I should have another glass of wine rather than switch to brandy.”

John looked around for something to bang his head against. When would he ever learn?

As he waited at the bar for the third scotch he'd decided he now needed and the brandy the 8-Ball had chosen for Sherlock, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_I thought you'd like to know that the 8-Ball says I'm bottoming tonight. SH_

John snorted as he thumbed a response. _I don't need an app to tell me that, you wanker._

~

Three days passed and Sherlock had embraced the Magic 8-Ball as the Decider of All Things. Sometimes this was terrific, and John kicked his feet up while Sherlock cooked dinner and hoovered the carpet. The 8-Ball had been responsible for a mind-blowing shower blow job for John and an afternoon where he let the 8-Ball decide when Sherlock could come--a long afternoon, as the 8-Ball kept turning up _outlook not so good_ and _my sources say no._

Sometimes it was nowhere near terrific, and John found himself answering all of the client email and scrubbing experiments out of the bathtub two days running. “ _‘It’ll be good for a laugh’_ ,” he muttered while wringing out the sponge. “Watson, you will never fucking learn.”

But Sherlock seemed to be having a good time, and he'd been in an exceptionally good mood since the party, so John bit his tongue and tried to enjoy the holiday. He even convinced Sherlock to help with the tree, and though it took two days to decorate thanks to every ornament placement needing to be questioned, they had a good time doing it.

_“John, the heart has to go on top--it says ‘signs point to yes’.”_

_“Sherlock, I'm not putting an actual heart at the top of our tree.” John grabbed the ball out of Sherlock’s hand and began to shake it. “Oh mighty 8-Ball, should I get to decide on the tree top this year?” He stared down at the window and grinned before triumphantly announcing, “It is certain!” He tossed the ball back to Sherlock and rummaged in another box, pulling out a slightly battered gold star. “Oh, victory is sweet.”_

After five days, John put his foot down about the Ball deciding on things like eating ( _“I'm not watching you starve because Sally Donovan gave you a toy”_ ) and bathing ( _“The 8-Ball can't smell you but I can”_ ). Anything else was fair game, though, which is why Greg was currently waiting on a return text.

“You're letting it decide the Work now?” John asked incredulously.

“It's a five at best, John,” Sherlock drawled, shaking the Ball lazily. “Is this case worth leaving the flat for?”

_It is certain._

“We have a case!” Sherlock shouted, swinging out of his chair and crossing to the coat hook. John eyed the table out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock knotted his scarf around his neck and started down the stairs. To his relief, the 8-Ball remained on the table, and he wasn't going to be the one go grab it.

He should have known better.

Five minutes after arriving at the scene, Sherlock was already rolling his eyes and insulting the team. “Lestrade, if you wanted to see us, you could have come up with a better excuse than this.”

“Can you tell us what we’re missing, then?” Greg asked, more weariness than annoyance in his tone.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a couple of times, and then typed several words. It wasn't until he started shaking it, though, that John understood what was happening.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he groaned, reading over Sherlock’s shoulder. On the screen, under the typed line _Should I spoon feed the solution to Geoff?_ was a picture of a Magic 8-Ball with _Yes definitely_ showing in the window. “I thought it was too good to be true when you left the thing at home.”

Greg grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and turned the screen toward himself. “What the--are you letting a sodding Magic 8-Ball tell you whether or not to solve this crime?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm letting a Magic 8-Ball app decide. It's not quite as trustworthy, but the actual Ball ruins the line of my coat.”

Behind Lestrade, Donovan started to complain under her breath to Hopkins. “This is your fault, Sally, so keep your comments to yourself.” Lestrade glared at her before turning back to Sherlock. “Tell me what you know and then don't do this at a crime scene again.”

“You're quite grumpy during this season of brotherhood and good cheer,” Sherlock tsked. “Did you quarrel with my odious brother?” As Lestrade reddened, Sherlock held out his phone. “May I recommend consulting the app?”

“May I recommend consulting my fist?”

~

The breaking point, when it came, was swift and explosive. One moment Sherlock held John’s favorite sweater in one hand and the 8-Ball in the other; the next, they were both staring at an 8-Ball sized hole in one of the sitting room windows and angry shouting was coming from the street below.

“Delete the fucking app right the fuck now, Sherlock, if you'd ever like to get laid again.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but obediently took out his phone and made a show of deleting the app with a flourish.

“Now put my sweater back in the wardrobe and start deciding things like a normal...well, you.”

Sherlock shot a longing look at the window. “What if I just used the app for--”

“No.”

“But it was so good when I--”

“Fucking _no_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock stepped in closer, the timbre of his voice lowering. “You certainly seemed to enjoy it when--”

“I'm perfectly capable of making things unpredictable on my own.”

Sherlock bent his head and ran the tip of his nose along the shell of John’s ear. “Show me?”

“Hang on.” With a glint in his eye John dug into his pocket. “Heads I show you; tails I make you wait till tomorrow for threatening the sweater my mum knit me.”

And he flipped the coin into the air.


End file.
